


The Long Way Home

by andnowforyaya



Series: The Long Way Home [1]
Category: Journey into Mystery, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Kid Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Loki is reincarnated as a child on Midgard with dreams for memories, Thor searches to re-awaken his brother.  When he finds him, he makes an executive decision.  Instead of taking him to Asgard, he takes him to Avengers Tower.  Journey Into Mystery & Avengers (Movie) AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the end, Loki died for Asgard.

This is what Thor told everyone, disbelief etched clearly into their faces. Some were furious that Loki (the liar, the usurper, the traitor) should redeem himself so in his final act, at least in the eyes of his noble brother and few others. _A great trick_ , Volstagg said magnanimously at the feast, borrowing his brother’s turn of phrase and laying a heavy, consoling hand on Thor’s shoulder. _His last._ But Thor had no stomach for pretty words meant to lift his spirits, for they were spoken for his sake and not for Loki’s. He grieved for him, and then he missed him, and he could not believe that his brother was truly gone.

The battle had been fierce, and long, and seemingly victory-less before his brother’s scream had echoed across the fields of Asgard. And then it had simply ended, the next moment soundless and still; Loki had fallen. Loki had vanished. In the aftermath, Odin slept and Heimdall kept his weary Eyes over all – but Loki’s fall, even Heimdall had not foreseen, and this deeply unsettled the powerful stargazer. Something remained amiss in his Eyes, but it was difficult to See a non-entity, a blotch of black over a canvas of more black, but he felt it, this non-entity, and he sought it out.

It is nearly one Midgardian year later that he happens upon it, like a smug audience member who catches the street magician tuck a coin swiftly behind his ear. He does not smile, not really, but it is a near thing. No, his eyes soften a little in satisfaction, now that he Sees what he has missed for so many months. 

Odin sleeps, and so he calls for Thor.

//

It is dusk in Paris, the street lights flickering and casting a golden glow to the old, winding streets. All around Thor shops are closing up for the night, while the cafes and restaurants open their doors, enticing would-be diners into their cozy-scented warmth, safe from the crisp night. The street is crowded enough that at times Thor must wind his bulk around a chattering group, taking great care not to misstep or slam anyone against his hammer slung in a shoulder bag across his back. He is mostly inconspicuous in his simple shirt and jeans. 

Thor is not interested in the food and wine on display, though he has yet to taste the much lauded cuisine of the Midgardian French, and wonders absently what Volstagg would make of the child-sized portions of meat and other foods that he can see through the windows of the eateries on the mortals’ clinking plates. He is interested in something else entirely.

“He is there,” Heimdall spoke to him when Thor responded to his summons. “But he is not as he was.” The Bifrost glittered beneath their feet.

“Who is there?” Thor asked, though his heart beat erratically with the answer already. 

Heimdall inclined his head, great golden horns bowed to his Prince, and said, “Loki.”

Heimdall said, “He is young. A child. He remembers nothing. On the path he follows now he may never remember, though he dreams. But there are many branches in the tree that is Yggdrasil. What branch would you have him follow? What path?”

Thor considered. Loki was inherently a shapeshifter, and who else but he would find a shape with which to avoid a permanent death? Though his brother had turned to wicked ways and had spent vast amounts of energy threatening everything Thor held dear, it was as a grain of sand in a desert. The past few Midgardian years at each other’s throats could not overshadow the millennia they had spent as children, as brothers, as princes, delighting in the other brother’s company. One could not exist fully without the other. For many moons now he has felt like a man without his shadow.

Thor remembered Loki as a child, and smiled, and though later he might think himself selfish, he answered, “I would have my brother returned to me,” and Heimdall let him pass.

And now on this street Thor feels it in his being that his brother is near, like a tug in his navel or a spice for his nose to follow. He wanders until the stars are bright against an inky sky, and then he turns a corner and sees a boy, leaning conspiratorially over a low table in the space between two buildings, a green hood pulled over his head so that all Thor can make out are some curls of raven hair. The boy is gesturing with his fingers, handling a trio of cards with practiced skill, flipping them over and under and over again. And his voice – unmistakable though the language is foreign to Thor – easily carrying through the crowd high and sweet and lilting, poetic and persuasive, inviting the group of young women gathered around the table to play his game.

The women coo at him, smitten, inching forward. Thor moves closer, too, and when he is close enough he realizes that it is not a foreign language at all that the boy speaks, but English accented by the vowels and consonants of French. “Let’s see if Serrure gets lucky tonight,” he hears. “No _tricks_ , ladies, just my cards and your cash.” The women titter, exchanging amused exclamations amongst themselves in English – so they are tourists – and one of the group points to a card on the table. Serrure pouts.

It is then that Thor feels a tug in the back pocket of his jeans, and instinctively he reaches behind him, grabs at the scrabbling, panicking form, holds it up by the scruff of its neck like a misbehaving pup – it is another boy. A boy who yells, wide-eyed, “ _Serrure, cours!_ ”

The boy behind the table bolts. Thor drops the other, giving chase. 

Oh, but how nimble and sure-footed this Serrure is! Thor grins despite the effort as the boy vaults easily over a fence in the alley they have turned into, his little body tumbling in the air and expertly rolling back into a run once he reaches the ground. His hood falls away as he spares a glance back, sharp green eyes widening when he sees that Thor has just as easily jumped the fence. “You’re crazy!” he shouts. “Why are you following me? What do you want? Money?”

Thor grunts, “No,” putting on a burst of speed and extending his hand, that green hood just within his reach - 

Serrure leaps again and disappears down the stairs into Paris’ underground metro. “ _Excusez-moi,_ ” Thor hears in its depths. “ _Pardon._ Ah, you are looking lovely tonight.” He follows, suddenly reminded of a time when they were both children, dashing through the forest on quick feet, hunting small game. They had been given small, delicately crafted bows and a quiver of arrows each, playing at the hunt while Odin was away on a real one.

He reaches the bottom of the steps just as he hears a gasp, a crash, and a, “ _Thanks for the fare_ ,” and there is Serrure jumping over the gates, his footfalls loud in the echoing space. Enough play, Thor thinks, slowing to a walk, paying the fare and following behind the boy at a distance.

Eventually, Serrure slows as well, occasionally glancing back behind him, but Thor remains just out of sight. They pause on a platform for a train going out of the city. The boy hunches over, catching his breath, but even at a distance Thor can make out the lightness in his eyes at the game he has just had. Loki always had loved to make Thor come after him.

In two breaths he is before him, arms crossed, imposing. Serrure looks up, expression wild. “Are you – is this a _joke_?” He bounds away again, down into the tracks, meaning to escape; he even says, “You’ll never catch me!” but Thor is through giving chase, and in one bound he is before Serrure again, who drops abruptly to his bottom, stunned. Thor has Mjolnir in his grip, his helm over his head, his red cape over his shoulders. Serrure gulps. "Look, sir, _monsieur_. Big blond guy. I’ll give you back your money. Heck, you want to try _doubling_ it, even? We can –"

“I have no interest in Midgardian coin,” Thor rumbles as gently as he can.

“Midgard – what – that’s not – you’re not speaking French!” the boy pants.

“Neither, my boy, are you.”

"I’m not? I’m not! Then what – "

“You speak the All-Tongue. Every man hears it as his native language. It is the language of the gods, and of Asgard, and _you_ are a son of Asgard, as am I.” The boy starts to stand, hesitant, perhaps thinking that Thor is crazy after all. Thor continues, for he must get this boy to understand, “You are Loki, son of Laufey and Farbuti, child of Odin, son of Bor, and brother of mine.* Your past lives have accumulated many sins, but in all of them you have been my brother, and in this one, too, I cannot be without my brother.”

“That’s…insane.” Serrure presses his lips together, the expression on his face unfamiliar to Thor. “I couldn’t be – I’m not a _god._ ” He screws his eyes shut, and when he opens them again they are glistening. "But I – I don’t _remember_ anything. Just the street, and playing card tricks for money. I have _no memories_. Where did I come from? But I have dreams, and they are horrible, and in these dreams I’m older and _so_ wicked and the things that I’ve _done_. Oh, you wouldn’t _believe_ –"

“I would,” Thor says, voice soft, and Serrure’s breath hitches as he glances up. “Every man has ghosts in his past, things that he regrets, things that he wishes he could change. Let us say that you have been given a chance, a _gift_ , yes?” He holds out Mjolnir, her magic shivering in his grip.

“What do I – will this help?” Serrure still looks unsure. Thor could still be insane. He bites his lip. “Do I just grab it, or what? This is _crazy._ ”

“This will not erase the past, but it will bring our paths together for the future. You will no longer be alone. But it is your choice, and once you make it, there is no returning to this simple existence.”

“I’m afraid,” the boy admits. Yes, that is the expression that Thor could not place on the boy’s face. It has been a long time since Loki has shown fear. “What if my dreams are my memories? What if that’s who I really am?”

“You are my brother, and you have nothing to fear,” he assures him.

Serrure narrows his eyes, determination in his features. “Well,” he mumbles mostly to himself. “What have I got to lose?” and he reaches out, grasps the handle of Mjolnir in one small hand, and the station is filled with a blinding, white light.

It is like electricity is slowly coursing through his veins, and with the slow buzzing creep comes the assurance that he is Loki, but not _that_ one. He is Serrure-Loki, child-Loki. He has many years before he grows old and he has no intention of becoming _that_ vengeful, _that_ spiteful, _that_ wicked. He remembers some things, but not all. These memories are like old faded photographs in a shoebox under the bed; they are aged and worn and nearly forgotten, but he is assured of their existence. The electricity – the magic – fades, the light recedes, and when he blinks his eyes open again he sees his brother, his _Thor_ , and the smile that splits across his lips comes of its own accord. Thor smiles back.

He looks down at himself and sees his Midgardian clothing has transformed into a green tunic with gold accents, a gold circlet sits upon his head, his feet are in leather boots, and – leggings? Yes, those are leggings. He is somewhat relieved that he still has a hood, though it is not green but the color of canvas. “Wow,” he states simply, that smile still upon his face.

Thor reaches out a hand. Loki takes it. Together they climb back onto the platform to the gasps and mutterings of the mortals watching, stunned. Some have taken out their phones to snap pictures. Casually, they walk back to the gates, exiting the train station and climbing back up onto the street. Some onlookers immediately recognize who is in their midst and still others voice uncertainly to each other, “Is that Thor, and is that – is that _Loki_?”

“Now I am returned to myself,” Loki states to Thor, ignorant of or else ignoring the whispers around them. “Now what? To Asgard?” He pulls the name of their home from memory and their immediate conversation, pleased, but Thor shakes his head. He has given this great thought. Loki would still be unwelcome in their home, even by Thor’s side. And a child has no need to experience the bitterness left behind by an adult, even if they are – technically – the same person.

“No, that will come later. For now, I have friends that I would like for you to meet, though they may be wary of you at first. They are a courageous group of mortals, very accomplished in battle and other arts. You may even be familiar with them already.”

“Who? Who are they?” Loki asks, interest piqued, even as Thor bends to scoop Loki up about the waist, putting him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He yelps a little, but there is not much he can do against Thor’s strength.

Thor grins. “The Avengers.”

He swings Mjolnir, and Loki’s cry of excitement follows them into the air.

//


	2. Chapter 2

Landing in Manhattan is always like wading through a marsh to reach the other side of a lake that is littered with cans and plastic leavings. Thor is told that it is called 'smog' and that the city has tried to clean its streets since its inception but to no avail. He much prefers New Mexico and its beautiful, red plains and blue skies.

Still, given his propensity for flight, it is some relief that Stark had a terrace built into his floor at Avengers Tower for him to gain entry so that he can avoid the streets altogether. It is on this terrace that he and Loki land, the lights of the city all around them making the stars invisible in the sky. The lights of his floor slowly come to full brightness as soon as he takes his first step, and much like Stark's machines that store away his iron armor when he returns from battle, an archway encircles his form, doing something complicated that Stark had tried to explain but that Thor had waved away, and it trails him to the door that opens of its own accord into the Tower. A scampering behind him tells him that Loki is quick to follow, and they both enter.

Thor deposits Mjolnir on a stand that Stark had constructed next to the fireplace. For now, this whole floor is his. Director Fury had explained that should the Initiative expand, the rooms would be divided as needed, but for the time being, every member has their own private level. And each level is complete with a kitchenette, a living room, a bedroom, and at least one guestroom and bathroom. It cannot match the extravagance of the halls of Asgard, but more and more, Thor is calling it home.

"Welcome to Avengers Tower, Loki," Thor says, gesturing grandly to the living room that opens into the kitchenette. A hallway from there leads to the bedrooms. He unclasps his cape and drapes it over the back of the sofa in the living room. "It will be our home away from home." There are little signs of the floor being lived-in. Photos of Thor, Jane, Selvig, and Darcy that Darcy had printed and cut are adhered to the door of the refrigerator, an unwashed plate lies in the sink, the cushions on the sofa are dented and off-center. 

Loki smiles brilliantly, examining it all, bright eyes darting from one thing to another as he flutters about the rooms. "Oh, my word," he's saying. "When will I meet them? Do they all sleep here? Are they asleep _now_? Where do _you_ sleep, brother?"

And, damn, that word from his lips. Thor is smiling again, a lightness to him that has been absent for so many years. "You shall know them tomorrow, I suspect. For now, we may rest. It has been a long journey to find you, and I am sure that you're re-awakening has left you drained as well."

"But I'm not –" A great, gaping yawn escapes him. "Tired," he finishes meekly. "Perhaps you are right. And in this life I have never travelled by hammer before! Oh, it was grand."

"You may soon tire of it."

"Never," Loki promises playfully.

Thor turns and begins to walk toward the hall. "Come. I will show you your bedchamber."

//

Once Thor shows his and his brother's bedchambers to Loki, there proves to be another problem. Loki has no other clothes in which to sleep, and so to solve this, Thor digs through his own drawers filled with Midgardian articles and draws out a shirt of his that is soft enough to be worn to bed. Loki hangs his circlet on the back of a chair provided in the guest bedroom and stores the rest of his outfit in the mostly-empty closet. The shirt Thor gave him nearly comes down to his knees, but it is indeed comfortable, and it is nice to be out of those leggings.

The next problem is that he is thirsty. He realizes he hasn't had a drop of water for nearly the whole day, hunger and thirst pushed aside to make room for thrill. However, this is easily resolved! The Tower is no maze and the small kitchen seemed unthreatening enough when he first saw it. Across the hall from him, Thor is making his own preparations for sleep behind a closed door.

The door slides open automatically when he stands before it, and the lights flicker back on in the hall and in the kitchen. Not quite sure why he's trying to be stealthy, he pads lightly towards the end of the hall and steps, barefooted, onto the cold wood of the kitchen floor. He raises his head when he hears a soft click about ten paces before him, and yells, immediately casting his eyes about for a weapon – those knives will do – dashing to the block of potential weapons and yanking one out. Not balanced for throwing, he realizes, dismayed, so he shifts it into a defensive grip, handle up, blade down. The man with the arrow pointed to his chest hasn't so much as blinked, only readjusted his aim. Next to him stands Tony Stark.

The knife clatters to the floor. "Oh my – you’re Iron Man!" Loki exclaims, pointing.

Stark inclines his head, stiffly. "That I am. And you are?"

Thor appears then, a ghost of thunder threatening outside, and steps in front of his brother. He doesn't look any smaller in pajamas. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Alarm tripped," Stark explains, hair a little wild and eyes a little too bright. He must have been in his workshop until late into the night. "Others are out. Thought we should check up on you, big guy. Since when is it okay to invite little boys over in the middle of the night? Is he wearing your _shirt_?"

"There is no danger here," Thor tells them. "Put your weapons away."

"He means you, birdie," Stark quips.

Barton doesn't move; if anything, his grip becomes tighter. "I'm not putting this away," he grits through his teeth.

"What do you mean you're not – for fuck's sake, that's a ten-year-old kid!"

"I'm eleven, actually," the kid says behind Thor. "I think."

"Look at him, Stark," Barton demands. "Doesn't he look familiar? He may be smaller than usual and I have no idea how he's even here, but that doesn't change the fact that _that's Loki._ "

Stark looks, _really_ looks. The kid is tiny behind Thor, all knobby knees and stick-thin limbs. He's pale, but not unhealthily so, and his hair is raven-black with a slight curl to it that makes it fluff around his head in tufts. He is slender-boned; the collar of Thor's shirt slips past his shoulder, nearly. His eyes are a sharp, startling green. His eyebrows, though, _do_ have a strange slant to them. "Holy shit," Stark agrees. "Loki?"

Loki steps out from behind his brother uncertainly. "Ah, then we are all of us acquainted? How lovely," and he can barely get the words out before Barton is losing that arrow. In the space of half of a second, Loki has ducked and the arrow has buried itself in the wall behind his head. "Or not." Thor glowers, again stepping protectively in front of Loki as he rights himself.

"Same reflexes, I see," Barton begrudges, bringing the bow down by his side but still not storing it away. "You got one chance to explain, Thunder Man." A hiss from the wall brings all eyes back to the arrow, and Barton adds, "Oh, and that’s tranq-gas."

Loki's knees buckle as he passes out.

//

"So he is free to remain?" is the first thing that Loki hears when his senses return to him. He feels blunt fingers at his scalp, the dip of cushions beneath his body. It's very warm where he is curled up on the couch, but he continues to feign sleep, his head in Thor's lap.

"I don't like this," Clint mumbles, the thump of footsteps following his voice. He is pacing. "So what if he doesn't really remember? He's still Loki."

"Aye," Thor rumbles in agreement. "But he is a Loki before his tricks were tainted in wickedness. He knows of his past lives' evils, and he wishes not to repeat them."

"How do you know? How can you be sure?"

Thor pauses, the fingers at Loki's scalp stilling. He wonders where Tony Stark is in this discussion. "You do not understand. Loki as he is now has no power. No magics."

"So all he has are his words." Ah, there is Iron Man. "What was it you all called him again? Lie-smith? Silvertongue? Newsflash – I don't think he needs magic to make our lives difficult."

"He is a child, and as such may be prone to a child's mischief. Asgard is not yet ready for his return, but I thought that my shield-brothers at least would be familiar with second chances."

Clint says, "A second chance is not a clean slate."

"Of course." Thor resumes petting Loki's hair. He curls into the comfort.

A long pause later, Tony clears his throat, setting a clinking glass onto the table in front of the couch. "What do we tell S.H.I.E.L.D.? We've got a miniature reincarnated Norse God running loose in Avengers Tower who may or may not turn into a force of Chaos and murder everyone in their sleep? I kind of think they won't go for that." A snap of fingers, and then: "I know. Probation. He's on probation. We're like his probation officers. One wrong move and he's outta here. Prison, or juvie, or whatever. Yeah? Yeah. It's not like he can put up a fight since he has no magic."

"I know not if my brother will find those terms agreeable."

"I'm not agreeing to any other option," Clint all but growls, and really, Loki's heard quite enough. He sighs, opening his eyes and sitting up on the couch. He pulls the heels of his feet together over the cushions.

"They are agreeable," he announces. "However, what constitutes a 'wrong move'? Ill intent? Injury? A misstep to the left? I fear I need some clarification."

Clint blinks owlishly at him. "Have you been awake – See? This is exactly the shit that he pulls."

"If we catch wind of any malevolent designs, scheming, anything that could _possibly_ result in injury to anyone in Avengers Tower – anyone at all, really – we're done." Tony is grim-faced. Or maybe tired. It's four o'clock in the morning, after all.

"That...casts a wide net," Loki allows.

"Hell yeah it does."

Loki nods. "Still, I agree to these terms. I am as of now on probation? And you are to be my probation officers?" And then he stands and marches over to Barton, hand-first. The archer looks down at it, then back at Loki's intent face, then back at the hand again. Hesitantly, he shakes it. "It is a pleasure, sort of, to meet you, Mr. Barton, and you as well, Mr. Stark," and then he shakes Tony's hand.

//

They decide not to tell Fury until Fury needs to be told. That is, no one really needs to know of the Loki situation unless it becomes a _situation_ , and also, Fury will probably be apocalyptic in his response to knowledge of said situation, in which case the Avengers need ample time to prepare. Reluctantly, for the sake of his teammates, Steve agrees. Nat grinds her teeth but nods to Clint. Bruce had actually been present in the Tower that fateful night, but wisely decided to watch the scene unfold via surveillance from the comfort of his own floor, just in case the Hulk decided to come out to play. He has no problem with it. He has no problem with anything, or so he says.

What really happens is that Loki is pretty much ignored by the other members for the first week of his stay, choosing to remain on Thor's floor doing who-knows-what except for one instance in which he is accompanied by Jane and Darcy on a shopping excursion in an effort to procure him more Midgardian garments of clothing. Tony snaps a tracking bracelet on his wrist before he goes, explaining that only he will be able to remove it again. Loki accepts this with a surprising amount of grace. Testily, Tony informs him, "One click from my end and this explodes. Capiche?"

Jane and Darcy give him matching horrified expressions, but Loki laughs, amused. "Capiche," he agrees.

They return some hours later laden with shopping bags and disappear into Loki's room to sort the purchases out into the closet and drawers. Tony forgets about the tracking bracelet completely, until the next day he sees it, little red dot still blinking, on a bench in his workshop on top of a torn piece of paper. _Fascinating device,_ is written in neat, tiny letters. _Thought I should return it. – L.L._

"That little shit," he says to himself, sitting at the bench to inspect his forgotten device. Nothing is wrong with it. But how did Loki get it off? The device is entirely remotely activated, and Tony is the only one who has access to its programming, he thinks. He's pretty damn sure. Absently, he swipes his hand and the files that he had been sorting minimize into one corner of the workshop, glowing blue. "Jarvis, start a new file. Label it 'little liar,' viewable only to me. I want to know what he’s up to during the day. Audio, video, transactions. All of it. Got it?"

"Already done, sir."

He returns his attention to the bracelet. There truly is nothing missing or malfunctioning with it. The light is still blinking, the lock still in place. Tony can't imagine how Loki had removed it unless he had broken the bones of his hand to slide it off. Which...Loki wouldn't do that, right? Not this one, anyway.

"May I suggest something, sir?" Jarvis intrudes politely into his thoughts.

"Suggest away."

"You could just go see him. He is currently on the twelfth floor, room 12-C."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"I did not suggest it for your enjoyment, sir. It is merely more pragmatic."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony mumbles, feeling not for the first time that he programmed for Jarvis to have very motherly characteristics. "I should probably make sure his hand isn't broken, or something."

"Very good, sir."

Tony makes a mocking face. A little unfair since Jarvis has no face with which to return the expression.

//

Loki is sitting cross-legged on a bed that dwarfs him, white sheets clean and crisp and pillows arranged perfectly. A Stark Tablet lays in front of him, and he swipes his index finger up to scroll whatever he is reading, his little face illuminated by the blue glow. Tony has to admit that the guest bedrooms are about as welcoming as a hospital lobby, everything in stainless steel and white, sharp corners and unrelenting lines. He spots Loki's golden circlet hanging from the back of the chair in one corner, the desk it is facing blank. Loki himself is wearing a green t-shirt under a black zippered sweater, its hood pulled up over his head, and jeans.

He looks nothing like a god, Tony thinks to himself. Just some kid with a tablet, absently chewing the string from his hood. Even gods have bad habits.

"Hey," he says to announce his presence. "What’s up?"

Predictably, Loki looks up at the ceiling. But then he grins and greets, "Hello, Mr. Stark." He returns back to the tablet.

"What do you have there? What I mean is – that's a Stark tablet. How'd you get one, and what are you doing with it?"

"It's Thor's. He doesn't use his, he said. I am much more adaptable to the wonders of Midgardian technology, he thinks. I am inclined to agree. And I am reading at the moment." He says this without sparing Tony a glance, clearly invested in the small text on the transparent screen.

"What are you reading about?" Dragons, probably, Tony thinks. The World Wars. The Black Plague. Things like that.

So he feels his eyebrows rise to his hairline when Loki responds with a casual, "Multi-variable calculus."

"Excuse me?"

"Calculus," Loki says again. "Of the multi-variable sort." Finally, he looks up at Tony fully, eyes twinkling. "Did you need something?"

"Yeah, is your hand broken?" Tony asks, taken aback and so letting the first thing to his brain fly out of his mouth. The boy quirks a delicate eyebrow. "Because how did you get this off?" He holds out the bracelet accusingly.

Loki eyes it. "I asked your AI, Jarvis."

"What do you mean, you asked –"

"Jarvis released me from its binding. He was most helpful."

"Okay, no. This specifically could only be removed by my command. And Jarvis doesn't listen to you! He's _my_ AI." Loki has a pleased expression on his face. It makes Tony a little antsy. He feels pressure building up behind his temples and thinks about the decanter in his kitchen, waiting for him.

"Well, if you must know," Loki begins uncertainly, "I tricked him with this." His little hands pick up the tablet. The pressure behind his temples begins to recede, because now _this_ is interesting. 

"How." It's not a question. He demands an explanation, and it seems that Loki is more than willing to give it.

"I may have found my way into your account and simply coded that Jarvis release the bracelet. No voice activation necessary. In fact, this tablet is a wealth of information! I learned everything I needed from it."

Tony strides forward, tapping the arc reactor with one fingernail. He drags the chair over from the corner until it's dead-center in front of the bed and sits in it backwards, spinning the circlet around one finger. Loki leans toward him, eyes bright. "So you _hacked_ into my AI and somehow rewrote the coding of this program into releasing the bracelet, all without tripping any spyware?"

The kid cocks his head to one side, mouthing the word ‘spyware’ once before nodding with conviction. "Yes."

Tony whistles through his teeth. "That’s impressive. How old are you again?"

"Eleven, likely. And it's all right? No wrong moves?" He looks so hopeful, then, so young and eager and earnest, practically bursting with potential, and Tony can't help but relate and sigh.

"No," he says. "No wrong moves."

Loki claps his hands together in genuine glee. "Oh, and it was such a fun challenge."

"You like a challenge, huh?"

" _Like_ it?" Loki looks offended by the very idea. "How do those cheesy actors say it? No, ‘Challenge’ is my middle name! It’s not really. Actually, I have none. How does Loki Odinson Laufeyson sound, though? I could monogram my belongings with LOL!"

Tony does not look at him fondly. He is still potentially a crazy super villain who has yet to reawaken. But he may be smiling and he may no longer be glaring and he may even say, “You don’t want your initials to be LOL,” and, “I want to show you something,” because Tony is a lot of things that are negative and a few things that are positive but the one thing that has always been constant has been the pursuit of knowledge, and this kid chases after it just as much as he does.

//


	3. Chapter 3

The kid is _smart_.

Tony brings him down to the workshop and expands the schematics for Marks III, IV, and VI of his suits, and they play a game of pointing out the differences between them, Loki noting early on that the Mark VI has a more aerodynamic design considering the curvature of its shoulder and leg armor, a small improvement that Tony often forgot he had even made to the newer model. In the blue glow of the data hovering around them, Tony shows Loki what buttons to press, which way to swipe, makes an arbitrary file and then deletes it just to show him his three-point throw. Loki delights in that particular exercise so much that they spend the better part of the next hour creating nonsense files and then throwing them into the projected Trash Bin.

They only pause when Jarvis announces a presence at the door, and they both turn to see Pepper Potts, fresh-faced and smiling in that way in that she's not really smiling, dressed down from her usual business wear. She comes through the door and Tony slaps his forehead. "So, heeey, Miss Potts, Pep," he begins in a tone that is at once apologetic and self-assured. "I'm late, aren't I? But listen, perfectly good explanation for that. In fact, if we leave, oh, in the next ten minutes with Happy driving, we'll get there just in time! And that explanation, by the way –"

Pepper silences him by holding up her index finger. "Don't make up excuses. Happy is driving. Also, don't even think about it, Tony. You're excuse can't be a little boy! I saw the way you were thinking about it; your eyes kind of slide over to the right."

Tony tries to interrupt, to make his case, but Pepper just shakes her head. When she turns her attention to Loki, the kid actually takes a step back. Good, Tony thinks smugly. Pepper talks to kids just the way that she talks to adults, although she's a little kinder. "And who might you be?"

Loki ducks his head, as though sensing what is about to follow. "Loki," he answers simply, quietly. 

For a few seconds, all that is heard is Pepper's breathing. Then: "WHAT?!" Tony latches himself to her wrists as she struggles to – well, he doesn't really know, but she's struggling. "What is he _doing here?_ " she screeches. "He threw you through a _window_ , Tony, and now you're playing pretend-basketball with him in your workshop? This is a new level of insanity even for _you_."

Tony doesn't even realize what he's saying until Pepper takes a breath. "In and out, in and out. Calm down, calm down. He's not throwing me through a window, right? See? Look at him." Pepper looks. Pepper glares. "He's just a kid."

"He almost killed you," she argues, red-faced.

" _Evil_ Loki almost killed me," Tony amends for her. "Like, once. Two years ago. _This_ Loki did not."

"He might."

"He _won't._ "

"I am still here, you know," Loki announces. Pepper finally yanks herself away from Tony's grip, smoothing down her shirt in the process.

"Oh my god," she's saying, over and over, pressing her palms to her face and beginning to breathe erratically.

"I see that I have caused you distress, Miss Potts. In my previous life and now even in this one. But may I offer a solution?" He takes a step in Pepper's direction, back straightening as he plants his feet shoulder-width apart from each other. Face grim, he says, "Strike, fair Miss Potts, and may it ease your distress, if only a little."

"Are you _crazy?_ " she all but screeches again. "I'm not going to hit a child."

"But it will cause me distress, and ease yours!"

"Oh no. No, no, no, no. And no! Tony, what are you teaching him?" She turns accusing eyes to the other adult in the room.

"How is this _my_ fault?" Tony wails.

"Where is he getting that idea from?"

"I don't know! He's a few millennia old, Pep. Some weird, twisted sense of Asgardian justice or something. I could see Thor suggesting something similar."

"My brother would suggest something similar?" Loki asks, apparently pleased that his choice of action reflected in some part his brother's ideals.

"He would, but it's _wrong_ ," Pepper affirms. "An eye for an eye leaves you blind."

"Who would trade an eye for another of the same? That's just silly. Odin All-Father traded one eye for knowledge, it is said. A much better trade, don't you think?"

Tony waits for snide remarks about Odin, or even Asgard, to follow, but none are forthcoming. Huh.

Pepper throws her hands into the air. "I can't deal with this right now. Tony, just – Loki, I'm not going to hit you. Just don't throw Tony out a window, okay? Think you can do that?"

"Aye," he promises solemnly.

"Good." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "Okay. Okay, I'm going to the car. Tony, you have five minutes or I'm going to the concert with Happy." She strides out, still agitated. Jarvis closes the door behind her.

Loki says, "Your lady is most...energetic. And beautiful."

Tony sighs. "Yep. That, she is."

//

Sometimes, Tony gives him homework. Nothing too complicated or overly long, of course. Math problem sets here and there that would give graduate students some pause, but Loki works on them with fervor and a keen eye and doesn't rest until he's finished. He starts to join them at dinner, usually plastered to Thor's side and eating tiny bird-bites of food, a child easily ignored in adult conversation. Occasionally Natasha or Clint will remember the pint-sized-maybe-villain in their midst and peer at him with a sharp eye; Loki is all toothy smiles and appreciation for Steve's cooking.

Finally drawn out of the twelfth floor, Loki begins to become a presence in the common room. Books piled neatly in one corner of the coffee table, half empty mugs of hot cocoa that make Steve tsk but that he collects and washes, a dark green sweater bunched into one corner of the sofa. Once, Tony catches him reading the Stark Tablet, legs drawn up on the cushions, with Steve just on the other end of the sofa, sketching.

"He's not so bad," Steve admits with a one-armed shrug when Tony casually asks him about this. "Though he could pick up after himself a little more."

Loki continues to come down to the workshop with him when he asks, and they work on a design for a bike for Steve, one that Tony might actually build. "Will it fly?" Loki asks him enthusiastically. "It would help if another of your team had flight capability, would it not?" And so they work on the thrusters.

One quiet afternoon, Tony realizes he hasn't seen Loki in two whole days. This wouldn't have been a cause for worry early on in his probation (was that still even going on?), but by now he's grown accustomed to seeing the tiny god of mischief lounging around the common area or using Thor like a jungle gym. Jarvis pinpoints Loki on the ninth floor.

Bruce's floor.

Panic flutters in Tony's chest, surprising him. Had Bruce had a quiet Hulk-out and smashed this Loki into the floor, too? Surely they would have known if The Other Guy had made an appearance in the past couple of days. His feet carry him to the elevator and he's pressing the button for ‘9’ before his mind catches up.

The doors slide closed. They open again and he sees - 

Bruce sitting in Lotus position in the cleared out area of his living room, eyes closed, breathing deeply. Next to him, a safe distance away, Loki is sitting in a similar position. They appear to be breathing in sync, and Tony steps out of the elevator carefully, taking very soft, very quiet steps to get a better look. Bruce is apparently deep into whatever zone he reaches in meditation, but Tony steps forward just in time to hold a hand out when Loki dips a little to the right, snorting a little and blinking up at Tony with a hint of embarrassment.

Tony tries to stifle his own laughter, but it comes out anyway, Loki’s shoulders slumping at the noise. He crooks his finger to the little god and they both amble towards the elevator, leaving Bruce to his meditating.

"Nodding off, there, buddy?" Tony asks with a huge grin when they are safely behind the closed elevator doors.

"It's so _boring_ ," Loki whines plaintively. "It cannot be done. ‘Zen,’ as you say, is not in my nature. I’m the God of Mischief and _Chaos_. Meditating, bringing your thoughts into order – like asking a fish to swim in a desert! Do you think I could die from it?"

Tony laughs. He laughs and Loki lights up with a smile that gets his whole face in on the action, pleased with himself, and he’s still laughing when they exit the elevator and Clint is standing there with his arms crossed and a very annoyed expression and _pink hair_ , and Tony guffaws, his stomach hurts – this kid is going to be the death of him.

Clint says, "This is not funny," pointing at his hair.

"It’s very funny," Tony disagrees between dying huffs of laughter.

"I can’t be stealthy like this!" Clint protests, very near to stomping his feet.

"You could wear a hood," Loki suggests amiably, and that just sets Tony off again, because how many times has he suggested that himself? Robin Hood, Clint in tights.

Clint growls, " _You!_ " He points a finger with all the accusation he can muster at Loki. Tony wonders if he’ll need the suit within the next second. "I know this is your fault. I am _so_ going to get you back for this."

And then he stomps off.

From the corner, unnoticed before now, Natasha says, "I would have gone with blue."

//

Clint has a fit when he finds all of his arrows have been replaced by fake flowers with the long, wiry stems. Loki wakes up to an entirely pink wardrobe and spends the next couple of days entreating Thor (and Pepper, when she comes around once) to take him out shopping for new clothes. Clint wakes up to an actual _nest_ of threads around his room, spiderwebbing and gold, and if he trips any of them he gets whipped cream to the face, so naturally he trips all of them. Loki somehow finds himself strung up by his feet hanging from a vent in the ceiling in the common room. He’s twisting upside-down and huffing when Tony and Thor find him.

"What has happened?" Thor booms, immediately rushing to his younger brother and supporting him so he can tear the rope apart with his own hands. Loki falls with an ‘oomph’ into Thor’s arms. He scrambles until he’s sitting on Thor’s shoulders.

"Okay, seriously," Tony says. "Prank wars are fun and all, but this needs to stop. Steve isn’t here to clean up after you guys!"

"Of what war do you speak?" Thor looks alarmed. "Why was I not informed?"

"It is just a war of games," Loki explains quickly to his brother, whose expression softens. "Of tricks. No harm will come of it. Actually, it’s great fun! Mr. Barton is a worthy adversary." He pauses. "Though I regret that Mr. Rogers is usually tasked with clearing the aftermath."

"Yeah, he regrets it, too."

A more awkward pause follows. Loki says, "Did you need something?"

Thor shifts on his feet. He brings Loki off his shoulders to stand before him. "Yes."

"And?"

Thor looks to Tony, a flash of helplessness so unfamiliar in his features. Tony gives him a brief nod. It’s all the assurance Thor needs.

"I have news of Asgard." Loki opens his mouth to speak, but Thor continues. "Odin awakens. He has asked for my return. I would speak with him."

Loki is practically vibrating with energy. "Are we –?" he starts, hopeful.

"No." One syllable is as effective as the thunder Thor so often brings to his battles. Loki deflates. Thor sighs. "Asgard is not yet ready, Loki. I will return alone. Stark has given his word to look after you in my absence."

"How long will you be away?"

"Not long," Thor says, a small smile on his lips. "I promise."

They embrace, but briefly. Tony has a feeling that displays of affection like this are not a ready part of Asgardian culture. He notices how Loki clings just a little longer than Thor does. The kid doesn’t shed any tears, but his eyes do have a suspicious sheen to them. Tony looks away, uncomfortable. Feelings were never really his thing.

Thor leaves soon after that, the Bifrost collecting him in a column of light. Loki doesn’t prank Clint again, and with a handshake they declare a draw and truce.

// 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for everyone who is not ready for the end of _Everything Burns_.


	4. Chapter 4

It rains for three days. Loki is a bundle of pale skin and black sweater for the duration of the storm, reading the day away or else trolling the internet. Steve comes back and makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and Loki eats them half-heartedly. Even Clint attempts to drag him out of his room to play “a game with lots of shooting and explosions, okay?” But a few rounds of stabbing at buttons and watching things explode on television cannot hope to hold his attention, and Loki lets Bruce take over his controller. Clint says, “Evil Loki was a huge douche-bag but this one you actually feel sorry for, huh?” to Bruce when he thinks Loki is out of earshot.

Bruce murmurs his agreement.

The next day it stops raining, and Loki comes down to the workshop of his own accord with Thor’s Stark Tablet. Tony spins the 3-D rendering of the bike they are working on and turns to him when he puts the tablet on a compatible dock. “I looked up the word ‘douche-bag’ on the internet,” he informs Tony, who chokes a little. “What a horrible thing to call someone! Your insults are disgusting.” 

Then Loki flings his hands into the air, the tabs opened on his device following his digits as they expand with the projector. They are all videos – videos of the older Loki, in Germany, in Manhattan; Loki before a great fire; Loki fighting Thor, fighting all the Avengers; Loki with a wicked, manic grin twisting his lips. “ _You were made to be ruled,_ ” says one of the video clips amongst the muted screams and sounds of battle from the others.

Tony gulps, tries to find an angle. “Is this what you’ve been doing the past few days?”

“I thought there must be some record,” Loki responds, quiet, face turned away still. “So I searched. Youtube is a wonderful resource. I found so many videos of my former self. So many instances of cruelty.”

“Well,” Tony starts, just as softly, taking careful steps toward the boy. “You’re right, that’s your _former_ self. Not you. Not really.” When he lays a hand on his shoulder, the shoulder is shaking. Loki sniffs, rubs a hand across his eyes in frustration, but Tony’s touch seems to spark a chain of reactions, and the tears fall unbidden from Loki’s eyes. The boy turns into Tony’s arms and Tony soon finds himself laden with a sobbing, gasping child god. His shirt at his navel is getting damp. “This is why I am not welcome in Asgard!” Loki cries between hiccoughs, arms like a vice around Tony. "I thought I remembered, but the reality is even more gruesome. Why am I even so welcome here? After all that’s been done! I do not deserve –"

Okay. Tony trashes all the tabs that Loki had opened, and the ensuing lack of screams and explosions leaves the workshop eerily echoing. “Hey,” he says firmly. "Don’t. You’re here because we believe in second chances. And you’ve stayed because you’re a _good_ kid, mostly. You looked up the word ‘douche-bag’? Well, Asgard has a lot of douches who aren’t so great with second chances, so Thor’s going to talk to them. They’ll come around to the idea, eventually. And in the meantime you get to hang out with Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Not bad, huh? Just, jeez, stop _crying_ -"

Loki says, “I am _not_ crying,” and abruptly stops, still heaving for breath. But he doesn’t let go of Tony’s middle. Tony doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover uselessly around Loki’s head like some misbegotten halo. “So you’re not.”

Loki sniffles once, twice, before finally taking a step back and pressing his face into his own sleeve. Tony sucks in a lungful of sweet air. “Is that the bike? Are the designs finished?”

That’s a diversionary tactic if Tony’s ever seen one, but he lets it slide. He can talk mechanics and engineering all day, every day. They tinker with the bike’s wiring for the next hour or so, before Steve knocks on the door and they have to put it away hastily.

A week passes; Thor does not return.

//

Clint does not like Loki. He absolutely does not think that this kid is one of the good guys despite the fact that he’s been somehow reborn and possesses the tear ducts of a veteran movie star. He could still be dangerous; he’s smart, for one. Too smart. And he spends way too much time alone in his room, hunched over that tablet, face illuminated by the blue glow. He could be scheming.

Scheming the newest way to prank Clint, most likely.

Clint scoffs. Okay, so the kid’s not too bad to joke around. And he kind of enjoyed the short-lived prank war, and this is absolutely the _only_ reason why he finds himself standing in front of Loki’s closed door, fist raised about to knock, in sweats and a t-shirt, because he wants to check up on the prankster and liven up the Tower again. Everyone else is old or science-y or Natasha.

Also, it must suck not having your older-brother-who-searched-the-world-for-you-and-reawakened-you around. Clint’s not basing that on personal experience or anything.

“Come in,” Loki’s voice sounds through the door before Clint can knock. At Clint’s bewildered look as the door slides open, he explains, “Jarvis timed how long you were standing there not doing anything. What was it, Jarvis?”

“23.7 seconds, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“23.7 seconds, Mr. Barton.” Loki is, predictably, cross-legged on the bed, tablet in front of him. The sheets are a wrinkled heap on the floor, though, which is a change. He sits back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling. “You know, in that amount of time, one could have disarmed you, taken a picture, uploaded it onto the internet, laughed for five seconds, and then returned to end your humiliation.”

Clint blinks.

What he says is: “Like _you_ could disarm _me_.”

What Loki says is: “Is that a _challenge_?”

And isn’t that what he came up here for, anyway? To get the little trouble-maker out of his room for once and preferably away from that tablet? A little rough-housing couldn’t hurt the guy. Clint bares his teeth good-naturedly. “It most certainly is.”

Loki’s returning grin is sharp as a knife. The archer digs into the pockets of his sweats. The only thing he has on his person is his Starkphone, so he brings that out to hold delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “I bet you one week on clean-up duty for the common room that you can’t take this from me in the next...twenty minutes.”

Loki’s teeth glint. “Fifteen,” he says.

“Deal,” and as soon as the word leaves Clint’s lips, Loki is launching himself off the bed, and Clint is turning and running – damn, that kid’s fast! – sneaking a glance behind him to see Loki execute a roll that brings him into the hallway. “Jarvis!” Clint yells, hoping the AI is a gifted mind-reader as well.

Jarvis informs him mildly, “I have unlocked the doors to all Emergency Exits, Mr. Barton.”

“Perfect.”

Clint crashes into the door by the floor’s elevator, deciding to take this chase to the gym, where they’ll have the space and padding to grapple, if need be. He descends the stairs quickly, feet practically a blur, coming out on the gym level. He expects Loki to be just behind him, but when he turns, the door to the staircase closes with no little boy exiting. The mats below his sneakered feet give with every step he takes toward the center of the sparring area.

He huffs, crosses his arms, scratches his head. Where was Loki?

A minute later and he’s really wondering. The kid didn’t get _lost_ , did he? Just as he’s about to put his phone away, something metallic clangs far above his head and in the next instant a weight drops about his shoulders. It startles him enough for him to react with his reflexes, grabbing hold of the offending weight and twisting himself away from it. 

Unfortunately, the weight is Loki, and Clint has just enough time to appreciate how he must have _crawled through the vents_ before Loki tries to swipe his legs out from underneath him. Clint jumps, lands with his feet apart and balanced. His fists are up even as he realizes he’s likely about to spar with an eleven-year-old. Are you supposed to pull your punches on a child god?

To be fair, Loki looks like he’s having the time of his life. He feints left and then he feints right and then he pulls a move straight out of capoeira and cartwheel-kicks Clint in his shoulder. “Ow, man,” Clint grumbles, peeved. “Where’d you learn these moves?”

“I lived on the streets for a year before Thor found me. What do _you_ think?” And then he gets a punch into Clint’s solar plexus.

“Oomph.”

They spar close-range, Clint’s forearms bruising even while he’s blocking and Loki’s _tiny_ but he guesses god-level strength is not to be reckoned with and already regrets all the icepacks that will die for his benefit. At some point the fight becomes more intense, less playful, and Clint forgets for just a second that he’s fighting a little kid and not Captain America or Natasha. His hand flies out with a resounding _crack_ and Loki drops, hand cupping his cheek, and –yeah –that’s blood dripping onto the sparring mats from Loki’s nose, and Clint feels like a horrible, horrible human being.

“Hrrrgh,” Loki says, or something like it, tears already welling in his eyes. Clint crouches next to him, urging him to lean forward.

“Oh, wow. That was _not_ supposed to happen. Loki, man, I’m _so_ sorry. It doesn’t hurt too much, right? It’s just a – fuck, you’re gonna have a black eye and Tony’s going to be _so mad_ at me and your _brother_ , oh my god. Are you okay?” He has a mini cardiac-arrest at the thought of Thor angry and/or furious with him. He’s rubbing circles onto Loki’s back like that will help anything. Where is his brain? He needs coldpacks and tissues, he needs cooling creams, he needs Loki to stop laughing like that because it is totally freaking him out.

Loki says in a nasally voice, “I win! You’re on clean-up duty for the next week!” He holds up Clint’s Starkphone. His grin up at Clint is bloody and really unnecessary for the resemblance it holds to another Loki that Clint remembers so well. He curses.

“Did you – was that your _plan_?”

“I disarmed you within the allotted time.”

“Yeah, by _taking a direct hit_ to make me worry so that I unaware that you were sneaking the phone from me!”

“If that was my plan, then it worked very well.”

“I’m not even going to – oh my god, let’s just get you cleaned up.” Clint drags Loki up by his elbow, marching him over to the lockers. Loki’s eye is already purpling, though the bleeding has stopped, at least. 

He’s kneeling in front of Loki, whom he seated on one of the benches, gently wiping away the blood above his upper lip with a damp towel, when Loki breathes, “Thank you, Mr. Barton.”

Confused, Clint asks, “For what? The black eye?”

Loki slumps and sighs. “For the distraction. It is very kind of you. I should like to do this again, only perhaps next time _you_ should try to disarm _me_.” His grin this time is less bloody.

Clint breathes a sigh of his own. “Sure thing, little guy. I’ve got to get you back for dumping clean-up duty on me, anyway.”

Another week passes; the bruise fades from Loki’s eye. Thor does not return.

//

Sixteen days pass in a blink, and Tony and Loki are in his workshop when the alarm blares, overheard lights blinking on and off in their programmed pattern. It _has_ been a disturbingly quiet month so far, so the inventor figures that it’s just about time, anyway. Jarvis informs Tony politely that Director Fury is on the phone. He holds up a silent finger to Loki and asks for Jarvis to put him on speaker.

There’s a crackle, and then: “—before they are all over the city!” comes Fury’s growling, deep voice. “Suit up, Iron Man. Captain America and Hawkeye are on the scene already. Widow’s en route in the Quinjet with The Other Guy. You gonna let her get there _before_ you?”

Fury already knows the answer to that. _Of course not_. “You think I would design the jet to be faster than my suit?” he teases, pressing the buttons on his homing bracelets. “Jarvis, upload coordinates. Fury, can’t wait for the debriefing. Iron Man out.”

Fury hangs up. Loki says, “Are you really going to –?” before an explosion rips away half of the wall of Tony’s workshop, the vacuum it creates pulling papers and tools from his tables. Tony turns – his suit is on its way, t-10 seconds, but it won’t be fast enough – and he counts one, two, three Doombots at the hole left behind by the blast, Loki standing between them, before a shock of electricity passes through his system and shuts it down.

Blackness, and then – 

He coughs, rolls over onto his back. The floor is hard and unyielding and ridged. His hands are cuffed. He blinks open his eyes, the lights surprisingly dim until Tony realizes that there is no artificial light, but only the light of the setting sun through a barred window near the ceiling. “The fuck?” he manages, wheezing. Sometimes he hates being only human. A brilliant, genius, incredibly resourceful and wealthy human, but still.

He rolls again and sees Loki sitting against the wall – everything is made from square, gray stones – and holding between his hands a Starkphone, his thumbs moving quickly over the screen. “They got you, too?”

The phone nearly jumps out of Loki’s hands. “You’re awake!” Loki exclaims, nervously.

“You okay?”

The boy nods. “You’ve been unconscious for _hours_. I thought there might have been serious damage.”

“Aw,” Tony says for lack of anything better. A feeling worms its way into his heart. “They didn’t take my phone away?” he asks, pushing away the feeling-worm.

“Apparently those Doombots were incapable of performing outside of their programming, which I am guessing was limited to, explode, knock-out, kidnap, and imprison.”

“Is that _sarcasm_ in the face of danger?” Tony feels something dangerously close to pride. Loki sends him a shaky smile for the effort.

“What danger?” he says, so of course that is when the door slams open and two Doombots seize them by their manacles, using some sort of electromagnet that pulls them both up and out the door. They are marched between the copies only a short distance, the hall also made up of gray stones and torches that burn a strange, pale fire. Loki mumbles, “How medieval,” and Tony chuckles, even though they are both certainly being led to Doctor Doom at this very moment, who will likely not have very good intentions towards them.

The hallway leads to a set of great wooden doors, and these creak open as their little party approaches. The throne room – Tony can’t really think of any other way to describe it – is even darker than the hallway, mostly bare but for a few robots and machine parts and weapons along the walls, and Doom, who is lounging in his metal throne and tapping his fingers against the material.

“Stark,” he hisses through the grill plate in his mask. He doesn’t address Loki. The Doombots escorting them step away when they are but ten paces from Doom. Light falls through the open doorway, elongating their shadows in front of them.

“Doctor,” Tony greets with pseudo-politeness, even inclining his head. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Your own intelligence condemns you. I require something that only you can provide.”

Tony cocks his head. It isn’t like Doom to be so straight-forward. “You mean, like, you need me to work with you? Yeah, no,” he says emphatically.

“No,” Doom says. “That’s not it.” His eyes lock onto the blue glow of Iron Man’s power source, and he hums in appreciation. Tony catches where he’s looking and very nearly scoffs. It’s been tried, he wants to tell Doom. You’re insane to try it again. Well, insanity is definitely a part of his enhanced power. Doom’s fingers continue that tap-tap-tap over the arm of his throne. “Something else.”

“Well, I decline. Sorry, not signing any waivers. Not agreeing to the lab demo, either. So that’s a ‘no,’ in case you didn’t get that. Do not give consent.”

“You misunderstand,” Doom sneers – or, he would probably be doing so, if only he could see under that mask. “I am merely informing you of my intentions. Don’t think that you’ll have any say in the matter. You’ve been in this business long enough to recognize a threat before it’s been said, I assume. I know your people, Stark. I will get what I need from you.” 

“My people are kind of invulnerable, you know. It’s working out for them.”

Doom leans forward suddenly, probably angry, though his expression doesn’t change. “And what about this whelp standing next to you? Is he as invulnerable as the rest?” With a swipe of his hand and a spark of green, one Doombot steps forward, creaking metal arm outstretched to Loki, who’s just staring at it with wide, green eyes, knees locked in place, and Tony’s about to _move_ , to put himself between them, when Loki spits, “ _Fool,_ ” snarling, and the Doombot stills its progression, victim to Doom’s surprise.

“ _What_ did you call me?”

Loki schools his face into one of complete and utter disdain. It’s completely out of place on an eleven-year-old yet so _Loki_ that Tony can’t help but gape, just a little. “Did you not recognize me, _Victor_? It is your sometimes-ally, Loki Lie-Smith.”

A long moment passes in which Doom regards the child. He takes in the dark hair and intelligent eyes, the regal air and contempt, and must see something familiar. Finally, he grits, “You are smaller than I remember.”

“A side effect of reincarnation.” The steps he takes toward Doom are confident and large. “I have spent _weeks_ playing my brother for the sentimental oaf that he is; I know now the soft underbelly at which to strike to eliminate the Avengers, all of their secrets and weaknesses. I have been biding my time, Victor.”

“For what purpose?” Doom sounds suspicious. Loki turns, interest apparently on the weapons along the wall. He moves toward them slowly, gradually, running a finger along the blade of a particularly wicked looking axe when he reaches the array. Still, Doom makes no move to stop him. Likely he thinks he could easily overpower any of those weapons should Loki decide to surprise him.

“Because I am extraordinarily evil and wish for my brother and his friends’ demise, I would align myself with a worthy ally, of course.” He pauses, the barest hesitation, before continuing, “In my current form I possess no magics. My sorcery is lost to me. I have the knowledge but not the means with which to defeat them and Thor.” He spits at the name.

“And you would have me provide the means.”

“I will provide you with the schematics for Stark’s newest suit in return for your assistance in defeating Thor,” he amends, turning back around to face Doom.

“Hey!” Tony yells, struggling against the electromagnet that keeps hold over his manacles. “Not cool, Loki. You don’t have to do this. Also, don’t steal my stuff.”

“What I do is none of your concern, _mortal_ ,” and, oh, that’s the sting of betrayal Tony feels in his chest, right next to the silent press of his arc reactor. Tony tries to will it away. The kid is acting, lying through his teeth. It _has_ been weeks and anyone putting on a show for this long would have shown some cracks, Tony thinks, mentally persuading himself. Had there been any cracks? All that time spent in the workshop, playing pranks on Clint, trying to meditate with Bruce, the Loki from before definitely would have snapped before now, right? 

If only he had his suit, he could blast his way out, grab Loki, and give him a thorough shaking once they touched town at Avengers Tower again. He looks down at his encircled wrists, the pulse of electricity faint running along his skin. As long as these weird fortified cuffs are on him, the homing bracelets are useless, and thinking of possessions, where is his phone? His eyes dart back up to Loki, and from the angle of his stance Tony can just make out the sharp edge of his phone in the back pocket of his jeans. Oh. 

Even as the idea is coming to him, the stifling press of electricity along his forearms disappears, and his homing bracelets warm against his wrists. He allows himself a little victory smile and hopes that the satellite he borrowed to aid with locating has a reach that extends into Doom’s castle. Without Jarvis he isn’t sure how long it will take for the suit to reach him. Perhaps Loki has factored that in, also. Doom turns his gaze slowly between Loki and Tony, considering. “Your bargain intrigues me, but what of Stark? You want me to release him.”

Loki waves his hand absently, chains between his wrists clinking. “It is of no consequence to me.”

Doom says, “Prove it.”

It was a good act, really. Until now. 

Loki hesitates, mouth open to speak but no sounds leave his lips, and in that hesitation Doom knows he has been played. Hissing, he flings out a metal arm, an arc of blue-white current exploding from his fingertips. This blast of energy hits Loki square in the chest, and he flies back from the wall at the burst, screaming, crashing into a slightly smoking heap nearer to Tony. And Tony is already running to him, on his knees, rearing back suddenly when with a cry Loki surges toward him, something glinting in his hand – what the _fuck_ – and slices, the chain between Tony’s wrist snapping neatly in two.

Loki rasps, “ _Run!_ ” and Tony does, scooping the injured god up and over his shoulder like Thor has done so many times. The Doombots are turning, converging; Tony tries to remember if there had been any in the hall, tries to think about how long that hall stretches before they can reach another door, before they can reach _outside_ , and how long until his suit gets here? “Duck!” Loki screams, a sentient rearview mirror, or something. So Tony ducks, and the wall beside the space where his head had been burns quick and black. “Run _faster_ ,” Loki commands.

“Oh, my god!” Tony calls back, exasperated. “I’m not Captain America, here. This is as fast as I go!” His lungs are already burning, though they aren’t even halfway down the hall that Tony can see. Carrying a hundred pounds over his shoulder is not helping his speed any. “Doom following us?” he asks, gulping air.

“No,” Loki admits. “He’s just sitting there all lazy and evil.”

A crash sounds behind them as they round a corner. It seems that the hallway actually completes a circuit around the entire castle. “That was –?”

“Doombot,” Loki finishes. Then he shouts, “The window!” This actually gives Tony pause, and he falters, stumbling before the narrow window they’ve come across.

“What?”

“You’re going to jump.”

“Excuse me?” Tony peers out over the ledge. The trees below them look like little green golf balls. “Not even in hell. No.”

Loki pounds his little fists on his back. “Put me down,” he commands imperiously. Tony puts him down, and aside from being a little red in the face, Loki looks remarkably put together for someone who has just been blasted with magic electricity. “It is time for our escape!” he announces.

“I’m not jumping out this window. Me and windows do not get along. Don’t you remember your little conversation with Pepper when you first met?”

“You will jump first. I will jump after. This is simple!” Another crash as the Doombots gain ground. For once, Loki looks a little panicked, his eyebrows high, color on his cheeks and eyes shining. Or maybe that’s just excitement. If Tony knows his own face, which he does, he’s probably wearing a similar expression.

Tony braces his hands against either side of the gap in the wall, looks out the window, and then looks down the length of the hall. It’s a long hallway that likely leads back to Doom. He looks out the window again, taking a deep breath. "This is so not a good plan,” he mumbles to himself. “Jump out a window. Hah! There has to be another way to—"

And he can’t finish that thought because that’s when Loki _pushes_ him out of the window and Tony is falling, wind whistling past his ears and ground rushing up to meet him, Loki’s words of, “Trust me!” as he pushed him a distant echo in his mind. 

He crosses his arms in front of him, like that’s going to help at all when he crashes at terminal velocity into the lawn below, and then since he has the time he debates how he should land. Feet first? Head first? On his back, or his stomach? He looks up, smiling brilliantly as he does so because that’s when he catches a glint of red in the distance. “That little shit,” he says, fondly. Yes. “Come to Daddy.”

The suit finds him, binds to him, wraps him in that familiar metal armor, all the plates sliding into place, already at full capacity and Jarvis’ blessed snooty voice says, “We’ve missed you, sir,” and Tony laughs, exhilarated as the thrusters engage and slow his fall until he’s hovering stationary in the air.

“Lock on Loki,” he says to his suit. “We’ve got a god to catch.”

//

Being that Loki is half frost-giant, the cold that comes with flying at an altitude of 30,000 feet doesn’t really bother him, but just for show he pulls up the hood of his sweater and zips the zipper as far as it will go, sitting astride Iron Man’s shoulders. Water collects on Tony’s suit that falls away into the atmosphere as ice. Doom doesn’t follow them once they fly beyond his borders, possibly because he doesn’t want to give further cause for international parties to be angry with him. Judging by the state of his Doombots, Tony figures that Doom isn’t quite ready to take on multiple world powers quite yet. Whatever the case may be, he’s relieved that the metal man doesn’t follow, because two hours into flight he’s running low on energy and they’re skimming over the lights of Paris.

“Brace for landing or something,” he says for Loki’s benefit as they descend. He feels the kid press his palms against the helmet a little tighter. “That’ll work.”

It’s terribly difficult being discreet in Iron Man’s suit – also Tony has never been one for discreetness – and he figures they could use a hotel and room service, like, _five minutes ago_ , so he decides to circle the Eiffel Tower once before they land, looking for a building with ‘L’Hotel’ in bright lights. Finding one that looks suitably ornate _and_ which has the doors open wide at ground level, he flies right into the lobby, bellboys and visitors ducking and gasping at the sight. Whatever.

The maitre d’ is a pointy woman with long, straight dark hair and perfectly plucked eyebrows. She doesn’t miss a beat. “Reservation?” she asks in a smoky voice when Tony approaches the counter, flipping up his face plate, Loki still on his shoulders. He might be sleeping. He hasn’t made a sound in over an hour.

“Don’t have one,” Tony says, cheeky. He leans onto the counter, metal plates protesting, and offers her the most shit-eating grin he can manage. “But I’m sure you have a room available for one ridiculously handsome world-class hero and his adorable, tired charge who happens to be a child Norse god.”

He watches her exhale through her nostrils. “You are lucky,” she says, lip twitching. “We happen to have just one.” With one hand she crosses something out on her giant notepad and scribbles something else down in its place, and with the other she is on the phone, speaking in rapid, clipped French. The exchange lasts mere seconds, and she nods with finality before hanging up. “You’re room is ready for you, Monsieur Stark.” She hands him a card with a metallic stripe on one side. “22-B.”

“ _Merci_ , my dear.” He snatches up the card, grin still in place. “Send up food and drink, too. Steak, potatoes, those little baby carrots with the tops still on. Caviar? No, not caviar. You know what I’m in the mood for? Curry. Send up some curry, would you, sweetcheeks?”

“ _Tout de suite,_ ” she nods, tersely.

“And pastries!” Tony adds, walking towards the elevators now. “Sliced apples, too.” He would keep listing things but the elevators close and then he and Loki are alone. The elevator mirrored on all sides, he sees that Loki has indeed fallen asleep on his shoulders, arms crossed over the helmet of the suit and head pillowed on them. Tony’s pretty sure there’s no way in hell that’s a comfortable position for anyone to sleep in, but somehow the kid has managed, and he’ll not begrudge him a few winks of sleep after all the excitement that’s been had in the past few hours.

It isn’t until they’ve reached the twenty-second floor and the elevator slows to a stop that Tony realizes how dead on his feet he is, how the drag of his feet feels like he’s walking under water. Once they are safely in their room Jarvis connects him to Avengers Tower, and of course it’s Steve on the other end, frantic:

“Where have you _been_? Are you all right? Is Loki with you? Tell me he’s with you. Thor’s back and he is _not_ happy. Clint is going _insane_. You know you were untraceable for _nine hours_? Where are you now? Have you stopped? Can we come get you? Are you safe?”

“Jeez, Mom,” Tony cuts in before Steve can ask if he’s had his daily serving of vegetables. “I didn’t break curfew _that_ much. I’m fine, thanks. Loki’s with me. Suit’s running low so you’re going to have to send the jet. I suppose I could just charter a flight out of here, but I have a feeling Fury’s going to want to see me sooner rather than later. Not that I like to make things easier for him, but, there’s that. Jarvis will send coordinates.”

“Sending coordinates, sir.”

“We can be there in a few hours,” Steve promises. “Wait, you’re in Paris?”

“Sure am.” Carefully, he reaches up and lifts Loki up from under his arms, letting him fall into the bed on top of the covers. His sleep remains undisturbed, though he twitches his nose a little at the movement.

“Isn’t that –that’s where Loki’s from.”

“Uh, pretty sure he’s from Asgard. Or that other place with the ice and the giants. Yoda’s Hive.”

“Jotunheim.”

“Yeah, that. Look, he’s not awake so it’s not like he can appreciate being in Paris, anyway.”

There’s white noise on the other end and then Steve says again, “We’ll be there in a few hours.”

With help from Jarvis Tony manages to get the suit off of him, though in no way is it in the compact bullet-shaped package that it found him in. He drinks about a fish-tank full of water and then pisses it out immediately after – hey, it’s been a _long_ day – and forgets about the food he had ordered. He falls asleep next to Loki, his arc reactor glowing soft, pale blue under his shirt and creating shadows on the god’s face.

//


	5. Chapter 5

Tony explains it again but he can tell that Fury doesn’t like the sound of it any better than he did the first five times he heard it. “Wait,” Fury growls. “You let _Loki_ live in Avengers Tower on _probation_?” Which is also the fourth time he’s asked this question. Is he expecting a different answer?

“Thor made a good case,” Tony says, now cleaned up and fed and hydrated. And gadgeted. They had made a quick stop at the Tower so that he could pick up a tablet and a fully charged phone. The other members of the Initiative are sitting around the debriefing table in a secure room at S.H.I.E.L.D. Every member except the Thunder God. 

When the agents had put Loki into a different room Thor had followed, ignoring all protests. Now that they were together again, Loki looked incredibly small next to Thor’s bulk, which probably reassured Fury that nothing was going to happen –or that Odinson could take care of it if it did – while they chatted.

“He’s a reincarnated war criminal.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“He could have been working with Doom. They’ve worked together in the past. How’d Doom know you’d be alone in the workshop?”

“I’m _always_ alone in my workshop. And usually no one’s insane enough to join me there, except Loki, lately.”

Fury narrows his eye.

Steve says, “He’s been with us for a few weeks now, Director. He’s had a lot of chances to put us in danger, execute plans, but he hasn’t taken any of them. From what I know he spends most of his time, way too much time, on that portable computer looking at inappropriate content.”

“He likes to troll people on Youtube,” Clint adds helpfully. Natasha’s eyebrow twitches.

Bruce offers in that gentle way he has, “You know with the other Loki, The Other Guy was always wanting to come out when he was around, because he was angry. With this one? He still wants to come out, but it’s like...I don’t know. It’s like He wants to _play._ ”

Tony stares. "Okay. I’m going to pretend that’s not –" Struggling for a word: “Creepy.”

Bruce shrugs.

“I don’t give a fuck if he puts you in your happy place, Dr. Banner. Is he a threat? Is he dangerous?” Fury demands, slamming his palms on the table for good measure.

“Yes,” Tony agrees emphatically at the same time that Clint says, “Absolutely not,” and they glare at each other until Clint looks like he’s about to foam at the mouth. Tony quirks the corner of his lip upwards. “Let me clarify: He’s dangerous, but not to _us._ ”

Fury grunts. “Explain.”

“He’s _really_ intelligent, and quick. Resourceful. And he’s manipulative. And he’s a liar. He’s a _convincing_ liar. I’m still piecing together how we made our escape from Doom. He had my phone when I woke up in that cell. I _know_ he found a way to link up to Jarvis to time how long my suit would get to us, and to interfere with the electromagnetic pulse from those cuffs, with the phone. While I was unconscious. So Norse Gods recuperate more quickly than humans – who knew? And then he lied to buy us time, and the _timing_! Couldn’t have been executed better, now that I think about it. So yeah, I’m glad that mind was working _with_ me in that situation, and if you or S.H.I.E.L.D. do _anything_ that makes him second guess what we as a team think of him, this _kid_ , then I don’t want to be there when he turns against _you._ ”

Clint says, “Plus, there was that one time I punched him in the nose and gave him a black eye and he wasn’t even mad!”

Fury looks around at his silent, determined team, takes their measure, and throws his hands into the air. “I’m getting too old for this shit. Let it be on your heads. He stays with you; he’s _your_ responsibility.” And then he walks out.

Tony allows himself a little fist-pump under the table and catches Clint doing much of the same.

//

Loki huddles under Thor’s red cape in the starkly lit room across from where the rest of the Avengers are meeting with that angry one-eyed man. He wonders what this man had traded for his eye. It’s warm under the cape, and even though Loki had insisted that he’s half frost-giant and therefore the cold _does not_ bother him, brother, he had let Thor drape it around him and it smelled of ozone and heat and apples. It smells of the feasts held in Odin’s great hall in Asgard, of the fields he had run through in a previous life, of stars and gold and shining things. 

He breathes deeply, and feels Asgard like a yawning chasm in his chest. How can he miss a home that he has never really seen? And yet he does.

Loki peeked into the other rooms as they walked by them on the S.H.I.E.L.D. compound. This one they are in now is similar to all the others, furnished plainly by a long table and rolling chairs. He and Thor sit side by side, Loki curled into himself in the seat and turned toward the other. How he wishes he could climb into his brother’s lap and just _breathe_ , surrounded by his warmth and safety. It’s been so long.

But he knows the physical affection he so craves is not something that Thor will offer. Thor thinks his presence is enough. Loki _wills_ it to be enough. Something is troubling Thor, he can tell, even as Thor runs his hand through his younger brother’s tangled hair and returns his hand to the table. His silence is one of uncertainty. When they first saw each other again lightning and thunder had danced in the sky, and Thor had mumbled his apologies and Loki had forgiven him since it wasn’t his fault anyway and he had clutched at him until he was shaking and someone had said, “We have to go, now.”

And now they are here and the silence is suffocating him.

Mr. Stark assured Loki that they would be speaking of Doom in that other room, but he lied. Loki knows they are talking about him. He wishes he had something other than his mind to distract him; his thumbs itch for a tablet or a phone, at least.

Thor opens his mouth to speak and closes it again. “In Asgard,” he manages before stopping, eyebrows furrowing.

Loki leans into his words. “You have news,” he prompts. “I would hear it.”

The older rolls his shoulders back, as though steeling himself. “In Asgard I spoke with the All-Father. We spoke at length and came to many disagreements. Through it all we agreed on one thing, at least. That you are my brother and his son, and that you are welcome to come home.”

Home, Loki thinks, to Asgard. He imagines himself there, the smells from Thor’s cape not just smells but _experiences_. He walks through the fields west of the castle, skimming his fingertips along the tops of the tall grass and plucking flowers when he sees them. He feasts at Thor’s side and eats freshly hunted game roasted over a fire. He braids his mother’s hair with his quick fingers and twists flowers from the field into the silky rope. Idunn’s apples are sweet when he bites into them; the stars move before his eyes from where he stands on the Bifrost. And the Bifrost! It seems to be made of stars itself, shimmering so beneath his feet, but he looks closer and pictures the blue-orange shimmer of Mr. Stark’s blow-torch.

He thinks of Mr. Barton with pink hair, Dr. Banner in Lotus position, Captain Rogers with his sketches and inky fingers, Ms. Romanoff and her silent, secret smile. The lights of Avengers Tower may not compare to the golden halls of Asgard, but he finds himself curiously attached. Should he return to Asgard, then surely he would miss those walls. And those people.

“I do not wish to return yet,” he admits, surprising Thor, who shows it readily.

“But Asgard is home.”

“Asgard _was_ home.” This statement rings true. At Thor’s worried expression, he hastily adds, “You are still my brother Thor and Odin All-Father remains, but _I_ have changed. I would still like to see it, some day, to have many adventures there, but Asgard is my past. I know only of Midgard and its people. I want to stay here. Even if the one-eyed man wishes me gone, I would stay. I feel as though I _belong_ here. I would carve out a cave for myself to dwell in if I have to.” He presses his lips together then, afraid he has spoken for too long, glancing uncertainly up at his brother, who had remained silent throughout.

“You truly wish for this?”

Loki sits up a little straighter, putting more force behind his words: “I do.”

His brother’s expression softens, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his lips turning into a smile. He runs his hand through Loki’s hair again but lets his palm rest at the nape of his neck this time, a ghost of a familiar gesture. “I have made a home of Midgard before,” Thor says. “We shall stay, brother, and have our adventures here.”

End.


	6. Chapter 6

Epilogue

It’s not that Tony is bored. After the excitement of Amora showing up with Skurge a little more than a week ago to terrorize Thor and the ensuing ruination of half of Central Park (“Women are strange in their displays of affection," Loki had confided to Clint, after. Clint had looked to where Natasha was cleaning the edge of one of her blades and agreed.), the Avengers have been busy cleaning up the aftermath. That is, Captain America and Thor have been helping to clear away the debris while Tony Stark made announcements of his plans to donate lots of money to the city to put more trees in that green space. Once it was Spring again, anyway. This year’s winter is so far snow-less but still cold, the dirt of the city frozen-packed and wind tunnels like flying daggers to those who would brave them. 

Okay, so maybe he’s bored and doesn’t want to brave the cold outside. He announces this to Jarvis. Jarvis says, "I could create a list of suitable activities that can be conducted within the confines of the Tower to alleviate your boredom, sir."

Tony swivels in his chair and says, "Go for it."

Jarvis has a lot of good suggestions; Tony programmed him, after all, so that’s only to be expected. Design a new suit, start on Steve’s bike, try to electrocute Thor, order sushi from every Japanese restaurant within a fifteen block radius and rank each one. Tony waves them all away. He's just designed a new suit; he doesn't have the part needed for the bike, yet; he's certain the God of Thunder _can't_ be electrocuted although he might make an interesting conduit (Tony files this away for future boredom); he's already ranked the sushi and is not feeling so great about raw fish at the current moment (He can blame _Bizarre Foods_ for that one). Then Jarvis says, "You also have 487 unviewed files in the folder titled ‘Little Liar.’"

Tony doesn’t remember for a moment, and then he does, eyes blinking. "487?"

"Indeed, sir."

Tony feels the beginnings of a smirk forming. At least this could be interesting. Should he or shouldn't he? What the hell - he's the poster child for shouldn't-but-doesn't-give-a-fuck. "Sort: Internet search history. Most recent."

Jarvis lists smoothly, "Average snow fall NYC, properties of ice, penguins, Antarctica, sea monsters, library search: Old Norse, library search: Lokasenna, library search: Norse mythology, male sorcerers, pugs in costumes, Captain America myths, HYDRA, library search –"

"Wait." Something clicks. "Did he check out a bunch of library books?"

"In my records Master Laufeyson has on loan sixteen books from the New York Public Libraries and three that are not on loan."

"Three that are stolen," Tony corrects, reading between the lines. He knows he’s right when Jarvis does not respond.

"Okay. Video surveillance. Sort through. Give me something interesting."

The lights dim as Jarvis commands a projector to whir to life. A small square of video footage plays before Tony’s eyes as Jarvis says, "January 20, 2013, 6:47 a.m." That was two weeks ago. 

In the video, Loki is reading, much like he always is, on the bed. The book he has in front of him is huge, nearly the size of his torso, and splayed open down the middle, its binding fraying. Loki hunches over it, a small finger tracing the words. A little to the side is the tablet, and he cross-checks something on that screen frequently as well. For some reason, he lifts his other hand to turn palm-up, cupping it slightly. His lips move, and then, quite suddenly, there appears a small but very much burning marble of blue fire above his upturned palm.

The Loki in the video drops his hand suddenly, the fire extinguishing with it, and from the movement of his chest Tony can tell that he is breathing harshly. The smile on his face is endless and magnificent, and even through the pixilated projection Tony can read the thrill of excitement in his green eyes. His eyes say, _okay, now what?_

Tony scratches at the hair under his chin, not as alarmed as he thought he would be about this discovery. "Jarvis, scan through the other videos from that date. Look for other instances of magical activity – weird lights, water moving when it shouldn’t, crystal balls, demons, you know."

"Scanning, sir."

"Show me what you got."

"Sixty-eight-percent complete, seventy-four-percent, eighty-nine-percent. Scan complete. Video projections to begin playback at first sign of magical activity."

The videos appear in a staggering pattern, none overlaid by another, and soon Tony is surrounded by a dozen or so videos of Loki molding water into shapes, Loki throwing a deck of cards into the air only to have them freeze before the cards can make the return trip down, Loki looking up at his circlet hovering above the crown of his head. Loki performing magic.

_No sorcery, my ass_ , Tony thinks to himself, still more amused than alarmed. He has a feeling that he should feel worry or concern. Perhaps Loki’s finally _really_ reawakening and soon the Avengers will have to contend with him just as before – only this time their target will be a boy barely a pre-teen. A boy who is more mischief than madness, trying to prove himself first to his brother and then to his brother’s awesome super-hero friends. 

No, Tony is definitely not worried.

"Jarvis, let me know if you catch him doing something like this again," he says. He adds, " _discreetly,_ " just in case Jarvis takes that to mean that he should sound an alarm at Loki’s next magical experiment.

"Of course, sir," Jarvis intones promptly. "I am discreetly informing you that currently Master Laufeyson is engaging in suspicious activities in room 21-F. He is now en route to the twelfth floor, likely to return to 12-C."

21-F is a special room to Tony. He nearly falls jumping out of his seat and scrambling to the door, mind already racing over the potential damage Loki could have done. What did Jarvis mean by ‘suspicious activities’? Loki had stolen those library books; would he steal something of Tony’s, too? The answer to that is a quick and little-debated yes, Tony realizes. Was this something more serious, though? Did he have a little arsonist living in the Tower, now? Or perhaps a moody almost-adolescent who is grappling with identity issues and questions of worth. Ugh. He can’t bear the thought.

"What was he doing in my _Record Room?_ " he shouts at his AI, who of course does not answer, but by then Tony is in the elevator and thinking of suitable punishments for eleven-year-old Norse Gods.

//

The honey-smooth voice of Nina Simone greets him when the elevator dings open on the twelfth floor, the sound so rich and ambient that Tony actually holds himself between the open doors for a moment, peeking around the corners, because there’s electricity in the air that’s not really electricity, but a hum of energy that is warm and tickles, just slightly, when he breathes in through his nostrils. He’s very certain that the soundsystem he had installed on this floor did not perform at this level, like the music is leeching into his very pores. " _This old world is a new world and a bold world for me_ ," Nina croons.

He hazards a step out of the elevator. When nothing happens, he begins to search.

Loki is not in the living room, nor is he in any of the cupboards of the kitchenette. He’s not in the bathroom behind the curtain or on top of all the towels in the closet, and he’s not in his own room. " _I know how I feel_ ," Nina sings, her voice just as ever-present as before. He wonders at the source of it, but then he opens the door to Thor’s room and sees his precious record collection – the jazz section, he notes immediately – strewn about on the floor around Loki’s cross-legged form.

Loki doesn’t notice him, too intent on the black vinyl disk floating above his extended fingers. His eyes are nearly entirely dilated with something like focus, a ring of brilliant green for irises, and he shines from a light sheen of sweat. "Hey," he says, not too loudly, but it’s just enough for Loki’s concentration to break, for him to blink and for the record to skip, scratching on nothing, and then for him to blink again at Tony as the record clatters to the floor, the music cutting off abruptly.

"Ah!" the kid calls in reflex. What follows is almost just as reflexive: "This is not what it looks like!" He waves his hands and then very carefully picks up the dropped record and slides it into its sleeve.

Tony raises a skeptical eyebrow. "It looks like you broke into my Record Room, stole my jazz collection, and then came into your brother’s room to see if you could do the magic record player thing. _Nice_ sound quality, by the way."

"I was just," Loki starts before bringing himself up short, cocking his head as he processes Tony’s accusation. "Okay, it is precisely as it looks like. I was going to return your records, honest!"

"Honest," Tony repeats flatly.

"I was going to return them after I tried to convert them into tangible files that I could keep with me," he amends.

"We have a machine for that. Little music players with headphones. Lots of storage space."

"It was just an experiment," Loki says, bristling, crossing his arms now and shifting to standing.

"Huh." Tony mirrors the action and crosses his arms. "And what about all those other times? Were those experiments, too? Does Thor know?"

Loki freezes on the inhale, arms tightening around himself. He ducks his chin and mumbles, "I don't know what you mean," miserably.

Tony sighs, refraining from tapping his toes against the carpet in impatience. "I already know, Loki. You don't have to hide it from me. Or anyone here, okay?"

The tension slowly drains from Loki's shoulders until he is standing, slightly slumped, still avoiding Tony's eyes. Finally, he exhales and offers the other a small smile. "You had Jarvis spy on me," he says, a small accusation under the benign exterior.

Tony isn't sure if he should brace himself for anger. This is another form of betrayal, he knows, to have been so long in the company of the other with the eyes of his AI turned onto the god. To be fair, he had ordered Jarvis to do so when they were all still unsure of Loki's presence and motivations and then he had forgotten about it. "I did," he answers with a slight nod, seeing no reason to lie. Besides, Loki could probably tell if he lied.

Loki hums at the admission.

"So what else can you do?" Tony prompts when it becomes apparent that Loki does not mean to speak.

Loki hums again. Tony watches as the boy claps his hands together, and when he draws them apart slowly, blue ice dances between them, glittering. He’s about to say, "Not so close to my records!" when Loki claps his hands together again and the ice shatters but dissolves into the air, leaving his records untouched.

A weighty silence follows. Loki chews on his lips and looks resolutely into Tony’s eyes, and he looks just as resolutely back. The green of his eyes is returned and glittering and bright and just a little unsure. Tony pictures those same eyes mad and black and wild, filled with something twisted and wonderfully dark, with bloody lips and sharp, sharp teeth. The engineer realizes that Loki is waiting for him to say something, to react, but he won’t, and eventually Loki gives in to the silence as he is wont to do and whispers roughly, "Don’t worry, it’s harmless yet. I have a lot to learn." Loki offers him that small smile again, a little fragile around the edges; his whole body pleading, _is this okay?_ So Tony says, "Yeah, that’s cool."

Tony says, "Just don’t destroy anything with that."

Tony says, "I trust you," and then he turns around and closes the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. Thanks for staying until the end! (...of this part?) 
> 
> You all are wonderful! 
> 
> xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at my tumblr, [andnowforyaya](http://andnowforyaya.tumblr.com/)


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